Читать книгу The Little Grey Woman - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

Table of Contents

THE balcony was only lit by the reflection from the coloured, shaded lights hung low over the dancing floor. The place was fairly level and set out with small tables and chairs. For a moment Knox remained by the rail, tearing through his clown costume for the automatic in his hip-pocket. At the far side of the balcony he could see the man standing, as if graven in stone.

Gun in hand, Knox advanced quietly until he was directly beside the man, who had taken not the slightest notice of him. Eagerly Knox peered forward. He had not been mistaken. The bundle on the floor was a man, crumpled up.

"What's this?" Knox placed a heavy hand on the standing man's shoulder, swinging him, round. "What's the trouble here?"

Something fell from the man's hands. He staggered under the pressure of the detective's hand; he would have fallen but for the grip Knox had on his clothing. Without relaxing his grip, the detective slipped his gun in his pocket and reached own for the automatic the man had dropped. He held it to his nose scenting the sharp tang of the exploded cartridge.

"Murder!" A tinge of awe came in the detective's voice. "Say, who are you? What's happened here?"

Again the man staggered under the momentum of the detective's hand. Knox bent forward, trying to see his face. He was masked; a piece of blue silk was drawn tight across the upper portion of his face. The costume he wore was most bizarre. For some moments Knox puzzled over it. At length, he made it out. The man was dressed as a mountain devil. The costume, extending from the devilish-shaped head and horns above the man's head to the lizard-like tail sweeping the floor, was of soft leather covered with strange knobs and lumps.

"Haven't a voice, eh?" Knox shook the man, who would have fallen but for his grip. "Well, we'll soon see about that! Wonder where the devil the light switches are?"

Still retaining his grip on the man's shoulder, Knox swung round to face the top of the stairs. Loames and any of the attendants he could find, should be near the stairs by this time.

Suddenly, in the dim light the form of a woman materialised against the background of light shining up the stairs. The long cloak she wore swept nearly to her ankles. Her head was covered with something that looked like a wimple. He thought he could almost see the mask of grey silk covering her face.

"Switch on the lights, please." Knox spoke abruptly. He swung his prisoner around before him and waited.

"Why?" The voice was low and sweet—almost a murmur.

"Why?" The detective's voice rose in sudden anger. "Why? Because there's been a murder done here, and I want to see who this man is."

"And you have caught the murderer?" The woman did not raise her voice. "Are you sure you have the right man, Inspector Knox?"

"The right man?" Knox stuttered with rage. He took a step towards the woman, pushing his prisoner before him. "Say, who are you? I told you to switch on those lights. You know who I am. Then do what you are told."

"The bungling official!" There was gay contempt in the light voice. The words were followed by a trill of silvery laughter. But now the detective was not paying attention to the woman. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, running swiftly upwards.

"Loames! Whoever's there—Stop that woman! Lights! Lights!" Again came the light, trilling laugh. Before it died on the air the woman stepped aside into the dark shadows and disappeared. With a bound Knox rushed to the head of the stairs, his automatic raised threateningly; his keen eyes searching around him.

"Lights! Lights!" The thunder of his voice rose above the din from bandstand and dancing-floor. As he called a form appeared in the light-patch at the head of the stairs and the lights were switched on.

"What's the matter, Bob?" Loames was standing under the switch-board, his arm still raised to the levers.

"Stop that woman! Find her, Loames! I want her! She's a crook; wanted in England and America! Get her, boys! She can't escape! I've had the exits under my gun ever since I saw her."

A group of attendants had followed Loames up the stairs. At the detective's words they spread over the empty balcony, searching eagerly. Knox watched them from his position at the head of the stairs, his left hand firmly grasping the man's shoulder. The woman was not in the balcony.

One of the attendants, moving along the back wall came across the body of a man and uttered a loud cry. Knox, who had, in the excitement of the chase of the little Grey Woman, forgotten the victim of the shooting, caught at a passing attendant.

"You, get a doctor. Get Dr. Harry Pate. He was in the left hand lounge fronting the bandstand a few minutes ago. Have a look in the manager's office as you go down. He may be in there with Sergeant Houston."

The man sped down the stairs and Knox turned his attention to his prisoner. Thrusting the automatic in his pocket, he whipped the mask off the man's face. The eyes were partially closed; a queer, grey pallor lay over his face. As the detective moved the man rocked on his heels, as if only held on his feet by the detective's grip. With a rough gesture Knox thrust the man up against the wall, freeing him. Unless he was really too ill to stand alone, he was a marvellous actor. The detective turned and caught two of the attendants passing at the moment.

"You, go to the doors and bring in a couple of my men." The man ran down the stairs, half-frightened.

"You, get some rope and barricade this part of the balcony. No one is to come inside that barrier on any pretext. There's murder been done, here!"

He stepped on one side to allow Dr. Pate and a group of attendants to enter the balcony. He barred the way of a man in evening dress seeking to follow them.

"What's the big idea? No one allowed up here." The detective spoke with his eyes still on his prisoner.

"I am Dr. Normand." The man spoke quietly. "Can I assist you? I understand a man has been shot."

"Dr. Normand! Thanks." Knox shot a keen glance at the man. "I know you, Dr. Normand. Dr. Pate's over there, with the man. Have a look at this fellow, please. He appears dopey. Suppose there's an uproar on the floor by this time?"

"I think Mr. Paul Tenzer, the manager, has the dancers in hand," Dr. Normand smiled quietly. "When I left the hall he was standing on a chair earnestly assuring everyone who would listen to him that there was nothing really wrong. What has happened? I was up here in the balcony, a short while ago—until we were turned out—"

"Turned out?" For a moment forgetting his prisoner, Knox swung on the doctor. "Who turned you out?"

"One of the attendants." Normand spoke in a quiet, grave voice. "This man has been drugged."

"He'll keep!" The detective cast a quick glance at the man leaning against the wall. "Let me get this straight. You were turned out of the balcony by one of the attendants?"

"That, is so. I came up here with a lady. We occupied one of the tables close to the front rail. An attendant came to us and asked us to leave. The balcony was to be closed for half an hour."

"Considerate!" Knox snorted.

"Did you see anyone in clown's costume come up here—in search of a friend?"

"He was in the balcony when we left." The doctor answered promptly. "The attendant went and spoke to him. When I came to the head of the stairs I looked back and saw he had gone to the far corner of the balcony. The attendant was standing just behind him."

"Standing just behind him! A left-handed attendant, no doubt! But, he's gone by this time. The show's over, so far as he is concerned." The officer muttered to himself. "Yes, he'll be out of the place by now. Curse it! I wonder what it's all about? Houston assaulted and thrown over the rail into the lounge below. This fellow up here with the other man. A shot and a dead man—"

"Not dead." Dr Pate had come to the detective's side, unobserved. "A bullet wound in the head. To use a hunter's term, he was 'creased.' We shall bring him round in an hour or so. What is it all about Inspector?"

"Blessed if I know!" Knox scratched his head perplexedly. "But we'll find out. Able to move your man?"

"Yes."

"Then get him down to the manager's office. Where's Sergeant Houston?"

"In the manager's office."

"Good!" The detective turned to one of the constables, ascending the stairs. "Take this man. He's wanted for attempted murder. Take him to the manager's office and keep him safe. I'll be there in a moment."

He ran down the stairs, halting at foot to watch the prisoner descend. On the facts he had a fair case. He had heard the shot as he went to climb to the balcony. For the moment he had been delayed through tumbling back into the lounge. When he had climbed to the balcony he had seen the prisoner standing over the wounded man, the automatic still in his hand. Yes, it was an open and shut case—except for the motive—except for the numerous strange incidents surrounding it. Why had the little Grey Woman come to the balcony after the shot? Why had she spoken to him? Why had she refused to obey his order, to switch on the lights? Why had she suggested he had not arrested the right man? What did the woman know?

He had climbed to the balcony and had seen the man with the gun in his hand—his victim at his feet. What mistake could he have made in those circumstances? Knox shrugged his shoulders. Why was he taking notice of the words of a masked woman he believed to be a crook—wanted by the police of two nations? Had she been in the balcony when the shot was fired? He believed not. He was almost certain she had come up the stairs white he climbed to the balcony. For what reason? Had the sound of the shot brought her to the balcony? That was possible.

On the other hand, if she had been in the balcony before the shot was fired, had she fired the shot, and thrust the gun into the nerveless hand of the drugged man? That also was possible! The prisoner had, undoubtedly, been drugged. Knox believed Dr. Normand. He knew the man was of too high standing to make a mistake in that matter. The Inspector had a feeling he agreed with the doctor.

From the moment he had seen the man in the imperfect, reflected light in the balcony, he had recognised that he looked ill—almost unconscious. He could hardly stand. He had not made the slightest effort to escape. He had not moved except when someone pushed him. But, if the man had been drugged, who had drugged him? The Little Grey Woman? No, that was absurd. He could not fasten the murder, and the drugging on her. She would not have had the time. There had not been an interval of more than a minute between the firing the shot and his arrival in the balcony.

Knox backed into the hall as the little party surrounding the prisoner came to the foot of the stairs. A man stepped from the throng in the hall to his side, touching him on the arm.

"Hullo, Andrews." A wave of relief swept over Knox. Inspector Andrews was his particular crony in the Department.

"Trouble, Bob?"

"Attempted murder. Unknown man, upstairs, badly creased. Sergeant Houston sandbagged and thrown by unknown assailant from the balcony to the lounge beneath."

"So? Want any help?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Looked in for a moment with the Commissioner. He's gone now. A volunteer help?"

"Got matters well in hand. But take over, if you like. You're senior y'know."

"I'm too wise to count years with you, Bob. Carry on. I'll be about if you want help."

Andrews clapped an affectionate hand on his fellow-officer's shoulder.

"Jove, is this your prisoner? Good God!"

"What's up?" Knox swung round, his eyes alight. "That's Denys Fahney." Andrews spoke in a whisper that only reached the detective's ears. "You've heard of him? Coming man at the Bar. Wonderful reputation. Remember the Barrington Will case? Won it in a canter when the betting was anything you like to mention against him. Quite a bit of a detective, on the side. Knows the Sydney underworld and most of its inhabitants like he knows Pitt Street and his own chambers. And, you've got him for murder!"